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This was the last thing she needed.
“Chloe?”
She blinked, and Tom’s concerned face came into view. He had taken the phone from her hand and presumablydisconnected the call since her phone now sat on her desk.
“Who was that?”
“Marcus King,” was all she could get out. Her tongue seemed to have swollen to ten times its normal size, and her lips seemed to have gone numb, making speech difficult.
Tom’s forehead creased. “What about him?”
“Parole.”
“Parole?” he echoed incredulously. “How did that man get parole?”
“I don’t know.”
“I'm so sorry. Do you want to go home?”
Home?
No.
Not at all.
It was the last thing she wanted.
What she wanted—needed—was to do something to equalize her world out. She was feeling completely out of control with the accident and Fin, and now learning that Marcus King was a free man. She needed to take back some of that control. She needed to make sure that Harley Zabkar was punished, and if he was the serial killer, Tom wouldn’t be the only one who would do whatever it took to make sure he never spent another day as a free man.
“Let’s go do this interview.”
Before her partner could argue, she was heading straight for the interview room.
She didn't wait for Tom before opening the door and walking in. “Good afternoon, Mr. Zabkar.”
The man who sat looking back at her was in his mid-thirties, had large, long-lashed green eyes, and wavy dark hair. He was good-looking, and he knew it. Arrogance was rolling off him in waves and filling the room.
He thought he had them beat.
He didn't think he would ever see a day inside a prison cell.
He thought he was smarter than them and that he was going to win.
He was wrong.
“Good afternoon, agents.” Harley shot them a sickeningly sweet smile.
Tom closed the door, and they both went to sit opposite Harley and his lawyer. He watched them calmly, completely unruffled by being asked to come down to the FBI offices. He didn't care that less than twenty-four hours ago he had shot her partner then run her off the road. How he thought he was going to get away with it, she didn't know. All she did know was that she wouldn’t let him.
“You are being charged with two counts of attempted murder of a federal agent,” Tom’s voice was just as calm and unruffled as Harley’s face, but Chloe could feel her partner’s anger.
“I didn't know you were FBI agents.” Harley leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He might be good-looking, but his clothes and shoes were cheap. Maybe the rumors about his gambling addictions were true.
“I identified myself,” Tom said.
“After I fired my weapon. Which I have a concealed carry permit for,” he added.
“No, Special Agent Drake identified himself as an FBI agentbeforeyou fired your gun,” Chloe contradicted. She was sure Tom had. She’d heard her partner speak, then the gunshot as she was coming down the stairs.
